


Care & Reluctance

by Arithanas



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Servant, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written anonymously in reply to this prompt left in <a href="http://borgiaskink.livejournal.com/">The Borgias Kink Meme</a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Spoilers for s2.3<br/>I know we're always into BDSM with these guys (which is totally cool), but right now I fancy some h/c. So... after bringing Rodrigo the news, Cesare goes back to tend to Micheletto. Can be slashy or just fluffy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care & Reluctance

“What now?” Cesare Borgia left his father's office to impart some commands and call the apprentice whose presence his parent required, but a maid insisted in pulling his sleeve to attract his attention. His nerves where on end, this was not the best time to tug his rope... or his clothes.  
  
“It’s your... friend,” the servant said, taking a step behind to make a reverence. “The redhead who came riding today.”  
  
“Micheletto, what's with him?”  
  
“There is a situation with him, Your Eminence,” the woman informed, her face proclaimed she had no other way to explain it. “A hostage situation.”  
  
“You need to explain yourself,” he said starting to make his way towards Micheletto's little quarters.  
  
“You are going the wrong way, Your Eminence,” the maid said pulling his sleeve again. “He's not in the palace.”  
  
“Where is he then?”  
  
“In the stables,” was the answer she gave, her face was so concerned, “taking hostages.”  
  
At least that made sense, in a twisted but logical way. There was no way Micheletto could be taken as a hostage and, if someone managed such an exploit, then Cesare Borgia pitied him with all his heart.  
  
The maid took him to the great stables where the papal army was mounting guard at all the doors. Some of them snickered and some derisive comments reached Cesare’s ears something about a bath. Cesare almost kicked the door; this was not the time to cause a ruckus, not with the impending invasion to the Eternal City. He came with the intention of let Divine Retribution fell on Micheletto's ass if he was getting frisky without a reason, but the scene inside the stables almost made him laugh.  
  
“Your Eminence,” the assassin greeted him, one hand engaged with a sweet pork leg while the other held the ropes that keep two of the best Vatican physicians on tip toe while a third was trussed like a chicken and was used like a footstool. In his lap, the carcass of a quartered and roasted suckling pig.  
  
“What sort of joke is this?”  
  
“He... refused to bathe,” one of the physicians tried to explain, but Micheletto didn't allow him to continue and pulled his rope.  
  
“It's no holy day of obligation,” Micheletto stated his argument, throwing the bone to the floor.  
  
“Well, you are right, but let them go, Micheletto, so they can explain me why were they so dead-set on bathing you.”  
  
Micheletto obeyed, letting the rope go and taking his feet from the trussed doctor, disregarding them in favor of the dish with sweet pork; it was painfully evident, for Cesare at least, that he was ravenous. A man in such condition surely could care little, or nothing, for his appearance.  
  
“He came from Naples, Your Eminence,” one of the physicians said, struggling against the rope that bound his wrists.  
  
“I'm aware of it.”  
  
“Naples had the plague.”  
  
“I'm not plagued!” Micheletto protested in his calm voice. That voice always prelude a regular bloodbath.  
  
“Eat, Micheletto,” The redhead’s cantankerous mood was infectious, Cesare found himself wanting to partake in that particular bloodbath his henchman was planning. “He came with news of the utmost importance. Why he must be treated like a dirty animal?”  
  
“Because the Vatican is not a stable!” answered the trussed physician with an irksome voice.  
  
Micheletto rolled his eyes and kicked the floor, a most irreverent gesture although it barely conveyed his annoying over the matter. This little display of violence was enough to silence the doctor. The first one rushed to help his colleague to get rid of his binds.  
  
“Your Eminence must forgive us. We were... we are worried about the health of the Holy Father and the whole consistory,” The third physician tried a milder approach. “Your friend could be healthy, but his clothes and his skin could be loaded with the Neapolitan miasmas. We only want to get rid of the... menace.”  
  
The argument was solid; Cesare couldn't find a flaw on it. His family's safety was a priority; at least it was more important than Micheletto's convenience, who more likely would like to sleep soundly in his quarters which were too close to Lucrezia and her new baby.  
  
“Take a bath, Micheletto,” Cesare commanded with a stern countenance.

One had to be quick to catch Micheletto's expressions, because they were usually so restrained that were imperceptibles. Micheletto set aside his dish and rose, rubbing his greasy hands in his doublet; trying to muster his will to obey. His henchman would obey, but grudgingly. While the servants filled a tub with hot water Cesare pondered that a tired Micheletto was as dangerous as an enraged bull, he should stay in the stables and keep a close watch on him.  
  
  
“We will need a mattress and some clean clothes,” Cesare said, watching his assassin shed his clothes. Micheletto wouldn't be fit to climb to his own bed.  
  
“I beg a moment, Your Eminence,” one of the physicians approached to Micheletto while he had his arms up to take of his shirt. “A small wound on the right side. A festered sore, a little bloody.”  
  
“I'll prepare a poultice...”  
  
“I'll bring the salts...”  
  
The physicians went about their business, and Micheletto watched them with the evident scorn in his eyes. It seemed he liked not the idea of being doted on.  
  
“You will have the best of Vatican's care and you aren't happy, Micheletto.”  
  
“I would have preferred they let me sleep on the straw where I was found.”  
  
“Explain me this story of hostages.”  
  
“They dragged me to the tub without a word,” his voice had a hint of outrage. “I was sure you will not like that I carve up this precious _doctore_ bunch, yes? And I was hungry.”  
  
“So you planned to exchange them for a suckling pig?”  
  
“Bread and wine never arrived,” Micheletto added, letting his trousers touch the floor.  
  
Without a making a fuss, Micheletto hopped into the tub. Cesare made a signal, asking for wine and one servant rushed to obey. A man this loyal deserved at least a drink. The splashing sounds were suddenly interrupted and Cesare gave this circumstance his whole attention. One of the physicians was pouring some dust into the tub water and Micheletto was ready to jump off of said tub. Cardinal Borgia never saw a man so distrustful of a hot bath.  
  
“Those are just salts, Micheletto,” Cesare said, “Those will help you sleep.”  
  
“Right now, I need no help to sleep, your Eminence.”  
  
That statement was true, and the way he wield that sponge seemed to proclaim it. Cesare was bedeviled by the idea of that physician group would get Micheletto on water until he sprout gills because soaking in hot water would not render him clean enough. Without a comment, Cardinal Borgia pretended it was Maundy Thursday and started to scrub Micheletto's back; not too kindly, right, but with more vigor that the reluctant assassin. The friction was welcomed because Micheletto laid his weight forward and let him do it, with a small sight of pleasure.  
  
“Micheletto?”  
  
“Your Eminence?” Micheletto voice betrayed he was drowsing in the bathtub.  
  
“Tell me about your trip,” Cesare commanded and squeezed the sponge over that tangled and dusty mane.  
  
“I left Naples on horseback, by night,” His voice was hollow but it seemed that water had woken him up a little, “I rode all the way to Santa Maria Maggiore, Your Eminence. The damned French scouts were on their way and for some reason they were hell-bent to get my horse. I discovered I still could play the peasant, if the need arises...”  
  
“But it didn't come out well,” Cesare commented, pressing the sponge against a new wound on his side. This new cut rankled him, because he suspected this one was enjoyed just as much as his little cruelties.  
  
“Not many peasants could take down five French soldiers with a dagger and a rope.” Micheletto didn't bat an eyelid at the pressure.  
  
“I suppose,” he squeezed the sponge and rubbed the back of his best weapon’s neck. “What did you do?”  
  
“I went to Gaeta and get a boat, steer it to Fiumicino. That save me almost three days.”  
  
“Are you trying to make me believe you can govern a vessel?”  
  
“I can govern a captain,” Micheletto said with his quiet voice, enjoying this strange touch, “it’s quite easy when you know the vices of the sailors.”

Cesare almost could hear him purr even when the only sound he made were the words out of his mouth. For the briefest moment, Cardinal Borgia was overwhelmed by jealousy and he used his hand on Micheletto’s nape to dunk this fool in the medicinal water, enraged by the nonchalantly way this animal confessed his betrayal.

Micheletto must have been taken him by surprise because he flailed his arms, but almost immediately stop resisting, giving himself to his master’s wishes. In all likelihood he believed that it was not a murder attempt, but a dream. Cesare let him go and Micheletto came out gasping for air, the water that dripped over his jowls was liquid mud.

“Sailors have many vices, yes?” His bloodshot eyes proclaimed that this time he was wide awake and that he realized his words were misunderstood.

“Really?” Cesare disregarded the sponge and held the soap against Micheletto's hair.

“Drunkenness, for once,” Micheletto dared not to resist against that vigorous scouring. Even half-awake, he could notice that Cardinal Borgia was not in the most favorable mood. “Wagers and whores, too.”

“Clear the soap.”

A couple of voluntary sinks allowed Cesare to review the preparative to end this tragic-comedic piece: a mattress with all its beddings was prepared in a clean stall and the wine was being served, with the solicit assistance of a physician who poured some more dust into the chalice. Cesare extended his arm to ask for the cup, Micheletto surely would have troubles with that, but Cardinal Borgia had been persuaded that everything the physicians wanted to do to him was for the sake of his family.

“Drink it!” Cesare sat at the edge of the bathtub and gave him the wine. The order was peremptory.

Micheletto took it and gave it a hearty swig; his mouth followed immediately his paranoid mind and the wine was spat by the side of the bathtub.

“Drink it, I said,” Cesare repeated before Micheletto could protest, annoyed by his distrust, “it's medicated, not poisoned!”

Micheletto looked at him with the eyes of a mastiff who did not understand why he was being punished, but he drank all the content in small sips, leaning on his right side. By the way he avoided that the water touches his wound, it was obvious that the salts in the bath hurt him, but not a word was uttered in complaint. Micheletto’s eyes were heavy and he was nodding almost imperceptibly; for a moment, Cesare notice his friend was quite vulnerable in that state.

That was a sight he didn't enjoy.

“Come, Micheletto,” Cesare invited trying to make him stand up, “You need to dry up and get clothed.”

Micheletto obeyed, Cesare took Micheletto’s right arm and used his own left hand to help him reach the improvised bed; because he was very aware that his red-headed assassin would never let another person help him in his moment of need. Micheletto was practically sleepwalking and he dropped on the mattress like a wounded soldier. Cesare barely had time to hold him before he found his way towards the land of dreaming.  
  
“Your Eminence,” the sensate physician called out.  
  
Cesare ignored his calls; he was more concerned with getting Micheletto inside a shirt.  
  
“We need to treat his wound, Your Eminence.”  
  
“Almost done, Micheletto,” Cesare said, nodding to the physician his fingers pulled up the shirt to expose the wound.  
  
“You may feel a bit of...” the once-trussed physician intended to explain the process to Micheletto while spreading a paste over a clean piece of cloth. His colleague placed Micheletto's right arm over Cesare's left arm to keep them out of the way.  
  
“Good grief! He’s dead on his feet,” Cesare was at the end of his rope and by Micheletto's eyes, he knew he was right. “Just do it!”  
  
They did as they were told; the warm paste was applied to the wound. Micheletto squinted his eyes a little, his bottom lip pouted a fraction and that was his whole reaction. Cesare knew there wouldn't be a demonstration and gladly held Micheletto straight until the physicians finished dressing his wound.  
  
“Get your rest,” Cesare whispered when Micheletto's head lolled over his shoulder, “you have earned it.”  
  
“Did he faint?” the doctor asked, feeling the sudden relaxation of the body.  
  
“He fell asleep.”  
  
The physicians maybe noticed the smile in his voice because they made haste to let the two men alone. Cesare was glad to see them go, that let him take care of Micheletto in relative intimacy, since the servants were still cleaning the stables, but their presence was not a bother for any of them.   
  
With care, Cesare let Micheletto find his place in the mattress, only he could tell how to get comfortable with his wound; once he was curled up at his ease, Cesare started to pile up blankets over his sleeping form.  
  
“Sleep well, my sweet assassin,” Cesare said, tucking his best and only friend with the covers, “I'll need you up and about soon...”


End file.
